


just another pop confession

by unwindmyself



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Blindfolds, Chair Sex, Courtship, Dildos, Dom/sub, F/F, Femslash, Femslash February, First Dates, First Kiss, First Time, Foreplay, Gags, Hangover, Kink Negotiation, Male-Female Friendship, Meet-Cute, Porn with Feelings, Rope Bondage, SHIELD Academy, Shameless Smut, Subspace, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-06
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-23 18:44:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1575668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwindmyself/pseuds/unwindmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's her last term at the academy, and Jemma very much wasn't planning on any distractions or entanglements or the like, but then again (and as silly and dramatic as it sounds) she also wasn't planning for Natasha.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. make ash and leave the dust behind, lady diamond in the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow or another, Jemma manages to both meet and interest a legend.

It’s not as if Jemma has stage fright or anything so exaggerated as that, but she does get a bit anxious making presentations (she’s getting better at it, but presenting things that deal with her own research still makes her nervous because she’s concerned that she’ll be wrong, which is silly because she’s so rarely that, especially when she triple-checks, but – well, perfectionistic tendencies come into play and there you have it). Furthermore, while she’s not traditionally shy, she does tend to display that way with strangers and most authority figures, so making presentations _to_ either or both of those categories of people is sort of doubly bad for her.

It’s because of those jitters that she runs straight into someone coming out of the hall, she thinks. Normally she’s not nearly so clumsy. Granted, she’s not exactly graceful or entirely in touch with her own body, but slamming into someone else and dumbly watching her papers and books fall to the floor around her is a rare situation.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammers. “I don’t know what’s got into me, that’s not –”

“Don’t worry about it,” that someone she ran into says smoothly, offering a hand.

Coincidentally, it’s those same jitters that strike her when she accepts that hand – strong, but smooth, like she uses very, very expensive lotion or something like that – and looks up to really see who it was she slammed into.

The Black Widow. Agent Natasha Romanoff.

 _Bollocks_.

“I really am sorry,” Jemma exclaims, her eyes going wide and her cheeks no doubt going red. “I didn’t mean… I’m not usually so…”

“It’s not an issue,” Agent Romanoff insists (the Black Widow is talking to _her_ ).

“There you are,” another voice calls from behind them, and Jemma startles and then relaxes when she sees it’s Agent Hill, who’s clearly addressing Agent Romanoff. She fixes on her brightest and yet least-manic polite smile as the other woman approaches.

“Hello, Agent Hill,” she greets, nodding courteously like she hadn’t just been making a fool of herself.

“Simmons,” Agent Hill returns. “Good work in there.” It’s said coolly enough, but with the slightest of smiles, and that alone would be enough to reassure Jemma completely – it’s not like the superior officers who’d gathered to see her presentation hadn’t offered comments afterward, but that’s all the more reason it didn’t need to be done in the hallway, too.

“I agree,” Agent Romanoff says.

And that just makes Jemma’s jaw drop (again) because – praise, even vague as that, from _two_ of the most renowned agents that SHIELD has, especially...? That’s something she wouldn’t even be so arrogant as to dream of. “You were…”

“In the back,” Agent Romanoff nods. “Hill said she was going to something before our meeting, so I tagged along.” It’s said all casually, like she sneaks into academy research project presentations all the time and why wouldn’t that be odd, and maybe it’s _not_ odd but Jemma can’t stop gaping.

“We should get moving,” Agent Hill says, nodding to her watch.

But Agent Romanoff locks eyes with Jemma and doesn’t waver. “I’d like to talk more about your work,” she murmurs. “I’ll text you.”

Jemma squeaks, she actually audibly squeaks. She’s about to ask why, she’s about to ask does she do this with students often, she’s about to ask how does she get her hair looking so soft, she’s about to ask how much of the science work she even keeps track of (most field agents are only so aware of the science, and admittedly vice versa), she’s about to ask does the agent have her number (but of course she could just get it, she’s the Black Widow, getting one student’s mobile number shouldn’t be difficult).

What she ends up doing instead is nodding and nervously grinning and waving goodbye to the two older women as they make their exit. Well, she never claimed to be socially sophisticated.

* * *

She’s just thinking it was an idle thing to say, a way of flattering a clearly terrified agent-to-be maybe, so she’s not expecting that Agent Romanoff will actually get a hold of her, and yet – apparently it wasn’t, because she does, and they make plans, and –

 _She, Jemma Simmons, is having dinner with the Black Widow_.

They actually speak on the phone to confirm the plans, just to make it official, and Jemma’s sure she’s stuttering and panicking through the whole thing (she’s just glad that they’re on the phone and not in person so the way she’s pawing at her own face can be kept a secret), and before they hang up, in that lovely velvety voice: “If we’re going to go to dinner, I’m going to have to insist you call me Natasha.”

_She, Jemma Simmons, is having dinner with Natasha._

* * *

_> >FITZ  
>>EMERGENCY._

It’s funny, because Jemma sent out the messages hoping to hear back immediately (well, what else was Fitz doing tonight, nothing, and they do have an agreement that if she’s out with someone new he keeps his phone nearby in case she needs bailed out, not that she’d need bailed out here) but save her pacing and twitching it’s still and quiet enough in the restroom that the buzzing of her phone makes her jump quite dramatically.

_> >You need me to call you with an emergency?_

_> >NO I have an emergency. I think this is a proper date!_

_> >She took you to dinner Jem. What did you think it was?_

_> >I don’t know! She took me to dinner to discuss my research, or that’s what she said, but she booked out the entire restaurant._

_> >She’s the Black Widow, I assume she likes her privacy?_

_> >That isn’t the point Fitz!! Why on earth would the Black Widow take even a passing interest in someone who’s not even an agent yet?_

_> >I thought you were freaking out about it being a date, not if she really liked you._

_> >It’s all the same thing isn’t it!_

She can just imagine the look on Fitz’s face right now, that exasperated, confused one that seems to be reserved exclusively for dealing with her when she deals with her romantic problems, and it really is kind of silly, she thinks, but this whole situation is kind of silly.

_> >Well, if it’s a proper date you shouldn’t be in the loo texting me._

_> >I KNOW THAT._

_> >If she asked you out, she’s clearly got a reason. And don’t argue with me, I know you’re about to._

_> >I was not._

_> >Proving my point. Anyway, she’s clearly got a reason and – bloody hell, Jem, just roll with it. Even I can tell she’s fit._

_> >Is that a pep talk?_

_> >Yes. Did it help?_

Well, not entirely. But it helps as much as it’s going to, she figures, and it’s not like she’d expected any spontaneous words of wisdom, Fitz is more hopeless with dating whatnot than she is (which makes sense, considering his abject disinterest in the entire prospect).

So she freshens her lipstick (her original excuse for coming in here, though she’ll need a new one for why she’s been so long) and thinks how ridiculous that is since she doesn’t even usually wear lipstick, and once she’s presentable again she lifts her chin, pockets her phone, and steps back into the restaurant.

It’s still empty (of course it’s still empty) and Natasha is sitting at their table, idly adjusting the hem of her perfectly chic black dress and sipping her wine with a very nonchalant expression. “Better?” she asks (it’s hard not to watch her gorgeous mouth move as she talks).

“Very much,” Jemma says sheepishly as she takes her seat. “I – my friend, he… I had a message from him, you see, and –”

Natasha shakes her head. “Please don’t feel like you need to lie to me,” she says, and before Jemma can argue with it she adds, “You’re not very good at it.”

“I know,” Jemma admits sheepishly. “But it’s… well.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “It at least in theory saves face, doesn’t it? What are you thinking of me, going to panic in the ladies’ while you sit here alone?”

“Shockingly, I’m used to it,” Natasha drawls. “I know I come off a bit intimidating.”

“A _bit_!” Jemma exclaims, laughing in spite of herself. “You’re –”

“I know who I am,” Natasha interrupts, not in a way that chides (or invites pity either) but one that’s just straightforward. “And I know how people react to that. But I didn’t ask you to dinner because I’m marking you, I asked you to dinner because I want to have dinner with you.”

“Oh,” Jemma chirps.

“Beyond that, it’s really your call to make,” Natasha says. “Now, are you going to make me drink all of this wine alone?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jemma replies, reaching for her own glass, and for the first time that evening, she thinks maybe she can try to relax and actually enjoy the presence of the stunning woman in front of her.


	2. a beautiful dance that happened by chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma and Natasha are trying out this whole dating thing. It's going surprisingly well.

Their second date, five days later, is at another restaurant they have all to themselves (this one Indian food) and Natasha walks her home afterward, asking her questions about her childhood and undergraduate career and masters degrees and the like and managing not to seem bored by the answers.

Their third, eleven days after the first, is to the movies, where they sit in the back of the theater; when Natasha rests her hand on her thigh palm-up Jemma’s brave enough to grab it (and she doesn’t even get into the “oh my gosh, I’m holding the Black Widow’s hand” routine until she’s past-tensing it alone in bed later that night).

Their fourth, a full nineteen days after the first and therefore eight from the one preceding, is enough time later that Jemma has started to worry by the time that Natasha finally returns her call, but she immediately feels silly about it when she realizes that it was because of circumstances beyond Natasha’s control (i.e. work things, spy things) and relaxes even more when the restaurant they meet at actually has other customers this time. Not many, because it’s a tiny French place with less than ten tables, but it’s still somehow reassuring.

Natasha walks her home again, stopping on the sidewalk to straighten Jemma’s scarf and coat, and Jemma opens her mouth and it just slips out. “I had a lovely time tonight, Tasha.”

She’s sure it’s going to be met with – with something, she’s not sure, she can’t imagine many people get away with this and she’s already preparing to repent, chalk it up to the drinks they had with dinner, but Natasha’s only response is to smile almost proudly (at her gumption, maybe?) and brush hair back from Jemma’s face before leaning close to kiss her.

Jemma’s squeaking, she’s sure she is, her arms go stiff at her sides and her eyes go wide, but Natasha keeps at it, letting her own hands slip from Jemma’s cheeks to her shoulders to her waist, and by the time she breaks away, Jemma is starting to melt and a silly smile has formed on her face.

“That okay?” Natasha asks.

“Yes,” Jemma says instantly. “That’s more than okay.”

* * *

“So,” Fitz says, turning his most puppy-dog face on her. “Has your superspy girlfriend told you all about her exotic missions?”

“No,” Jemma rolls her eyes, shutting her textbook none too quietly and leaning back with her iced tea in hand. “For one, Tasha’s not my girlfriend.”

“Tasha?” he asks incredulously. “You call her _Tasha_?”

“Well, yes,” she shrugs.

“If you’ve got pet names for her, she’s your girlfriend,” he declares.

“It’s just… I…”

“You’re dating the agency’s top badass,” he smirks. “That’s all there is to it.”

“Well, it’s not a _thing_ ,” she defends. “And we don’t talk about her work much. For one, it’s not safe, even if I am going to be an agent too. For another, we’re busy.”

“My best friend is _having one off_ with the Black Widow?” he exclaims.

“I am not!” she shouts. “We haven’t even…”

“Give it time,” he says diplomatically.

“Oh, what do you know?”

* * *

Their next date is a slightly more casual meet-up, Friday night at one of the less-dingy bars near campus; despite the proximity Jemma’s never been, because if she has a drink and not just with a meal it’s either directly on campus or back at the apartment with Fitz after a long day, but the place comes with Natasha’s recommendations. Close enough that there won’t be unsavory elements, dark enough that nobody’s going to bother them.

And they just… talk. Thankfully the music’s not so loud they have to shout, so they can just sit at their table in the corner, downing beer after beer (they just keep appearing and Jemma’s so relaxed otherwise that she thinks nothing of it) and discussing – goodness, discussing abstract philosophy and literature and science and the less-unsavory aspects of Natasha’s world travels and – just everything.

Natasha’s still steady when they announce last call, but when Jemma slides off of her seat she very nearly topples over. Luckily Natasha’s there to swoop in, an arm going around Jemma’s waist so smoothly.

“Careful, now,” she whispers in Jemma’s ear.

“Didn’t realize I was gonna do that,” Jemma mumbles, blushing.

“Let’s just get you home, okay?” It’s not really a question, though, as Natasha’s already reaching for the younger woman’s purse and guiding them out the door.

* * *

When Jemma wakes, her first thought is that this certainly isn’t her apartment. The walls are painted a pale green, not the cream she’s used to; the covers are heavier and the slightest bit rougher. She’s about to be very confused when Natasha strides through the open door, a glass of orange juice in one hand and a plate of toast in the other.

“Morning,” she says, her tone and expression softer than somehow anticipated.

Jemma sits up, or tries to, but the second she lifts her head, her vision starts to swim.

“Oh, hell,” she mutters, pressing a hand over her eyes both to hide and to block out the light.

Immediately Natasha sets her offerings down and moves to shut the drapes, wincing sympathetically. “I’m sorry about that,” she says. “Do you want to go back to sleep for a while longer?”

“Uh-uh,” Jemma mumbles. “Did I... did we…”

“Did we what?” Natasha asks kindly. She thinks she knows, but she wants to be sure.

“What _happened_ last night,” Jemma groans, resisting the urge to hide under the covers.

“How much do you remember?”

Jemma pulls a face. “Beer,” she groans. “Beer and more beer and then nothing.”

“Well, when we left the bar you were a little unsteady on your feet,” Natasha explains. “And my place was closer, so…”

“Did we do anything?” Jemma asks.

“You sound so horrified at the idea,” Natasha teases.

“If – I don’t remember anything, and I’d hate to have forgotten _that_ with _you_ , and I…”

“Relax, kitten,” Natasha says, all genuine and not a bit patronizing. “By the time I got you up here, you barely remembered your own name. I held your hair for you and put you to bed, that’s it. I would never have taken advantage of you in that state.”

“Oh!” Jemma exclaims. “Oh, that’s –”

She goes slightly pale and clambers out of bed, then dashes to the tiny ensuite; Natasha is right behind her, catching her hair tight before she’s even hit the floor and smoothing her other hand over Jemma’s back.

They’re like that a good ten minutes before Jemma finally reaches blindly for a towel to wipe her mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” she moans, “and so embarrassed, I made such a mess of myself.”

“Hey,” Natasha says. “Hey, shush, it happens to everyone.”

Jemma looks up at the older woman incredulously. “ _You’ve_ been blackout drunk.”

“Of course,” Natasha says, and not for the first time Jemma observes how she doesn’t offer even the slightest hint of further information when it comes to her past experiences, even ones as trifling as drinking. “It’s fine.” She gently pulls Jemma up off the floor and settles her atop the counter. “How about I run you a bath?”

“Why are you being so impossibly sweet?” Jemma asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Natasha counters.


	3. as answers in darkness evolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha intuits (correctly) that Jemma is ready to have a sexual relationship with her. She also intuits (correctly) what dynamic Jemma would be keenest on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Charlotte McNamara is of my own invention (imagine a [punk Roxanne McKee](http://i.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2013/03/15/article-2293714-18AB5484000005DC-403_634x844.jpg)) and I once made up an entire one-off episode plot involving her, but I doubt I'll ever write that. So she's mostly just going to be mentioned here to remind us of the fact that Jemma has good female friends (and keeps on good terms with her proper exes, I guess).

They’re at some neighborhood bar listening to a mediocre Celtic rock band when Natasha whispers in Jemma’s ear, “You want to sleep with me.”

“Excuse me?” Jemma squeaks, positive she misheard.

“You want to sleep with me,” Natasha repeats. “I’d like it too. Tomorrow night?”

Jemma squeaks again, this time nonverbally.

“Yes?” Natasha teases, reaching to rub her thumb over Jemma’s lips.

Jemma nods very eagerly.

 

* * *

 

“What are you freaking out about?”

Jemma stops tapping her pen against her notebook and looks up. “Nothing!” she exclaims.

“You’re fidgeting,” Fitz counters. “If you’re fidgeting it’s not nothing.”

Jemma shrugs. “You wouldn’t want to know.”

“What, are you making _sex spreadsheets_?” he asks.

And she says nothing.

“Bloody hell, Jemma, I was joking!”

“Well, it’s not – I mean…” She hides her eyes as she explains, “I’m trying to make my first time with her nice, and I was going to ask Charlotte for advice but she’s in a meeting and I can’t decide what lingerie I should wear.”

Fitz grimaces. “One thing at a time,” he says. “One, should you be asking an ex-girlfriend about your sex underwear?”

“Charlotte’s not an _exy_ ex,” she defends. “We’re perfectly okay talking about these things. Just last week she asked me about –”

“I don’t need to know the details of your sex life and I _really_ don’t need to know the details of Charlotte McNamara’s,” he shouts.

“I tried to tell you not to ask,” she sighs.

 

* * *

 

Natasha is waiting downstairs, looking polished to an unfair degree (dress pressed to perfection, lipstick impeccable), and Jemma means to say hello, she really does, but what comes out is “I’m nervous.”

“You don’t have to be nervous,” Natasha says, amused for a moment before she realizes it’s a sincere concern. “This is familiar.”

“Yes, _this_ part is,” Jemma twitters, accepting the hand Natasha offers. “Then…”

“You’re not a virgin,” Natasha says, though it should really be a question for manners’ sake.

“Well, no,” Jemma mumbles, “but I’m still not… I mean, you’re… I’m going to make a fool of myself is the thing.”

Natasha stops right there on the sidewalk and kisses Jemma decisively. “You’re going to do no such thing,” she says against the younger woman’s lips. “You’re going to be very good for me.”

A shiver runs up Jemma’s spine. “Say that again?”

“That you’ll be good for me?” Natasha asks, carefully measuring each word. It’s a test, one of her own instinct. She doubts she’s wrong.

Jemma’s nodding very frantically, wetting her lips. “Uh-huh,” she manages.

And Natasha just smiles. “You like that?”

“Uh-huh,” Jemma repeats. “I had a girlfriend a ways back here – she’d use ‘good girl’ on me and I’d just melt.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Natasha says with a smirk.

 

* * *

 

They spend dinner discussing mostly pop culture (Natasha has never read _Harry Potter_ , but Jemma’s never seen _Pulp Fiction_ ) and a little bit Jemma’s current class projects, but as Natasha’s reaching for the check she brushes fingertips over Jemma’s hand and says “Hold on, kitten,” and it does that same electric thing to Jemma’s insides.

“Yes, all right,” she murmurs.

And Natasha just smiles.

When they get back to Natasha’s, both clear-headed this time, the first thing Natasha does is lead Jemma into the bedroom and sit her down. “I think we need to have a talk about boundaries,” she begins.

Jemma wrinkles her nose. “Boundaries?” she repeats. “I mean, we’ve both established our interest.”

“Yes, but I’m suddenly working woth more information than before,” Natasha declares, raising an eyebrow.

“You mean the ‘good girl’ bit?” Jemma asks.

Natasha nods. “Was that all?” she asks gently.

Jemma shrugs. “More or less,” she says. “An ill-advised attempt at, ah, handcuffs, scarves a couple of times, she’d boss me sometimes.”

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” Jemma says sheepishly. “I mean, the handcuffs weren’t nice and they sort of hurt, but I liked the idea behind them. Like, I suppose. And the rest, too.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Natasha says again. “I’d like you to be my good girl if you’d like it too.” She has her own reasons for enjoying this sort of play, being on the end of it, but that’s much too heavy to get into right now.

Jemma bites her lip. “Yes, please,” she whispers.

“I don’t want to do you up tonight,” Natasha continues. “I want us to get comfortable with each other before we bring props into it. But if you’d like, we can explore.”

“All right,” Jemma agrees, already planning to go home and do research.

“May I boss you a little?” Natasha asks, imitating Jemma’s cute phrase.

“All right,” Jemma repeats.

“All right,” Natasha agrees before lowering her voice. “Then strip.”

Jemma swallows heavily, trying to hide her excitement. “Uh-huh,” she murmurs. She doesn’t bother making a show of it, knowing all too well that she’ll fail, so she tries instead for efficiency and precision. Zippers are pulled, ties untied; her dress falls to the floor, her tights are pulled down, and she doesn’t dare to look up at Natasha until she’s down to her underwear.

“Going to leave those on?” Natasha asks, almost teasing perhaps.

Jemma shrugs sheepishly. “Should I not?” Truth told, she doesn’t want to take them off because she worked so hard to pick them out. (Well, with Charlotte’s eventual help.) It’s a pretty purple set that she’s unbelievably proud of.

Natasha can see that – the way Jemma stands, with her chest thrust out; the lift of her chin – and she finds it oddly cute. “I can work around it for now,” she decides. “Come here.”

“A-all right,” Jemma stammers, obliging.

“You’re not new to this,” Natasha soothes. “Sex, or dominance/submission, or girls.”

Jemma snorts out a seemingly incongruous laugh. “I’ve had sex with six people, 33% of whom did dominate me to some degree and 66% of whom were girls,” she explains. “It’s you in particular that I’m nervous about.”

“Kitten,” Natasha says firmly. “I’m only scary if you’re an enemy. You are the direct opposite.” She manages a smile. “When I tell you to get on your knees for me, it’s meant fondly.”

Jemma flushes, dropping to her knees and kissing the top of Natasha’s ankle. “I’m proud of that,” she murmurs.

“Good,” Natasha says. “You can undress me if you like. Shoes and stockings first.” What can be reached from Jemma’s current position.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jemma chirps. “Should I…? My, my girlfriend before, Charlotte, I just called her by her name, but I know usually in, ah, scenes…”

“You can use my name,” Natasha says. There are far-too-complicated reasons for that, too. Or not maybe so complicated – she spends so much of her life pretending to be someone else that she’d rather be herself in moments of intimacy. “Or the diminutive. It’s cute how you do that.”

“All right,” Jemma says. “Tasha.” She carefully pulls one of Natasha’s shoes off, then rises up on her knees to unclip Natasha’s stockings and roll them down slowly, tenderly.

“Good kitten,” Natasha hums, petting Jemma’s hair before pulling her to her feet. “Finish undressing me and I’ll get you off.”

Jemma squeaks. “Thank you, Tasha,” she says reverently. She unties the belt of Natasha’s dress, undoes the buttons down the back. “May I have permission to kiss you?”

“Of course,” Natasha says warmly. She holds very still while Jemma leans in to kiss her, then steps back. “Now. My clothes.”

“Yes,” Jemma nods, pulling the dress off. Unlike her own clothes, all tossed to the floor, it’s neatly folded and placed on the back of a chair. Then very shyly, she reaches behind to unclasp Natasha’s bra.

“Leave my underwear for now,” Natasha interrupts. She smiles slowly, almost wryly. “I think tonight I’m just going to take you,” she murmurs, stroking Jemma’s hair. “I want to see you come for me and hear you make such pretty sounds.”

Jemma glances up. Her last few relationships, if they could even be called that (more like her last three rendezvouses with seemingly acceptable fellow students – the postcoital cigarette smoker, the bore, and the worst of them, “anyway, here’s Wonderwall”) were very give and take, so the idea of being given with that being the only point?

This is a very different sort of arrangement, isn’t it.

“Would you like that, kitten?” Natasha asks softly.

“Uh-huh,” Jemma manages, afraid to try saying anything else and risk sounding foolish.

“Don’t worry,” Natasha says. “I’ll let you make it up to me next time.”

She’s setting expectations.

It’s thrilling.

They aren’t standing long; Natasha pulls Jemma into an embrace an kisses her, but as they’re kissing she walks her toward the bed, then tips her back. Jemma giggles. “Green,” she says before she can think about it. It feels like cheating to use the same safeword set she used with Charlotte, but it’s an accident that it slips out.

“Green is good,” Natasha hums. She gets it. She nudges Jemma’s legs apart gently. “Fingers or mouth first?”

 _First_?

Jemma whimpers. “I – ”

“Well, I can start slow and then amp it up,” Natasha drawls. “Or I can start fast and pull you back.”

Jemma’s eyes widen. “I’d – the second one,” she says before she can stop herself. “Please. I’d like that.”

Natasha slides down, presses a kiss to Jemma’s panties. “These are pretty,” she smiles. “You’re very pretty, kitten. But I’m going to undress you just a little more.”

“All right,” Jemma murmurs, arching her hips up to allow it.

Natasha makes quick work of the underwear, tosses them aside, and presses a kiss right to Jemma’s center. “And you taste pretty, too,” she says sweetly. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, please,” Jemma exclaims.

“Feel free to hold on,” Natasha smirks, tossing her head to indicate she’s mostly referring to her hair. “It’s going to be a long, wild night.”


	4. how many hours will I let slip away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma wanted kink, so Natasha is going to give her kink, safely and responsibly as possible.

“Does Fitz know where you are this weekend?” Natasha asks softly, brushing Jemma’s hair back behind her ear.

“Sort of,” Jemma says. “I told him with I was with you, and I’d have my phone. Not so much where we’d be.”

Natasha nods. “Good girl.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be a very good safehouse if it was known to all,” Jemma chirps.

“That’s good thinking,” Natasha hums, and she leans across the table to kiss Jemma. “You already finished all of your classwork, right?”

Jemma nods very eagerly. “As soon as I could,” she promises. “I want this weekend to be just for you.”

“It’s a privilege,” Natasha promises. “Now that all that’s out of the way, do you want to play?”

“Oh, yes, please,” Jemma says. “Tasha.”

“All right.” She motions for Jemma to stand and turns her chair around. “Red and yellow when you need them, but if you want to _play_ …”

“Yes, please, I do,” Jemma says.

“Okay,” Natasha says, “take a seat.”

Immediately Jema does, back straight against the chair, grinning. “Like this?”

“Just like,” Natasha assures. “Now put your arms at your sides and spread your legs.”

Jemma does, shivering. “Thank you, Tasha,” she says.

Natasha smirks. “Funny,” she says, in our line of work you usually hear that for getting someone _out of_ ropes.”

Jemma giggles. “Surprise?”

“You’re the sweetest spy I’ve ever met,” Natasha says.

“I’m not a spy,” Jemma laughs. “I’m a scientist.”

“Who works for spies,” Natasha points out. “Don’t sell yourself short.” She punctuates this by pulling rope tight around Jemma’s ankle, fixing it to the leg of the chair.

“Oh!” Jemma exclaims.

“Green?” Natasha asks.

“Green,” Jemma repeats, wiggling until Natasha binds her other ankle. “Very green.” Already she’s vulnerable and finding she rather loves it.

Natasha ties Jemma’s knees, too, spreading her even wider. “If you’re good,” she says, “maybe I’ll teach you how to get yourself free, too. That always makes it a little more fun.”

“What’s that?” Jemma asks.

“Knowing you could get out if you wanted, but you’d rather stay right where you are and be good for me,” Natasha purrs.

Jemma shivers again and drops her gaze. “I promise I do, Tasha.”

Natasha smirks and strokes Jemma’s cheek. “I know,” she says, “you’re a very good girl.” Once Jemma is fixed to the chair, Natasha circles her with a predatory smirk. “Still green?” she asks.

Jemma nods. “A bit curious how we’re going to…”

“That’s the point, kitten,” Natasha says. “That you don’t have to worry.”

Jemma laughs softly. “Right,” she says.

“Now,” Natasha murmurs. “Sight, hearing, speech.”

“What about them?” Jemma asks, gulping.

Natasha moves over to a shelf, beckoning like Vanna White. “I’m taking two of them tonight, but you get to choose which.”

“Green,” Jemma whispers.

“Good,” Natasha says. “Nod to which you want gone first.”

“How will I…”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “I’ll take care of you.”

So Jemma presses her lips together and nods to the bright red ball on a black leather strap. Of all the things before her, that’s the one she’s most curious to try.

“Good,” Natasha says fondly. “Good. I was hoping for that. I’ve been thinking about all the pretty mews you’re going to make.”

Jemma squeaks.

“Pretty, pretty,” Natasha hums. She comes to put the ball in Jemma’s mouth, adjusting gently before she straps it in tight. “One down.”

Jemma makes a noise of distress meant to mean, _how do I call the safeword?_

“Make a fist,” Natasha instructs, and when Jemma does she says, “Knock against the chair.”

Jemma does.

“One means red, two yellow, three green,” Natasha softly explains. “Yes?”

Jemma knocks three times.

“Good,” Natasha says. “Now. Time for the next toy.”

Jemma swallows with some difficulty. This is a harder decision, because either could be thrilling, but this first time with Natasha? Wanting so much to do right? She trusts herself more to listen than to watch.

She nods to the leather eye mask.

“Good,” Natasha croons. She takes the mask and puts it around Jemma’s eyes - a pleasant surprise, the inside is lined with soft faux fur - before whispering, “We can work out a system for when you want to try the other.”

Given that it’s all Jemma has to focus on, really, even that whisper seems magnified. It’s thrilling. She can also hear her own heart, and that is too.

“Ready to begin?” Natasha asks.

Jemma nods.

“I can’t hear you,” Natasha goads.

Jemma startles. She can’t even… but maybe that’s the point? She tries for a yes despite the ball and it comes out all vowel. Blurred, almost. It’s a bit embarrassing and, honestly, a bit lovely.

“That’s my good kitten,” Natasha says, stroking Jemma’s hair. She moves away for a minute and Jemma strains to hear. “Now, I’m going to take care of you, but…” She laughs low. “I’m going to enjoy myself, too.”

Jemma gives a curious mew.

“Well, I’m hardly selfless,” Natasha laughs. She comes to sit astride Jemma and as she does a toy - hard, not yet too slick - slides into Jemma. “It’s a double.”

Jemma moans.

“Yeah, exactly,” Natasha says, holding Jemma’s hips as she gets comfortable. “So I get to fuck you while technically, you fuck me too.”

Jemma laughs, though it comes out sounding stifled, and she rolls her hips as best she can.

“You’re very sweet,” Natasha says, kissing Jemma’s jaw. “Sweeter than most of the girls - most of _anyone_ that I go for.” It’s meant as a compliment. “But while you’re a very sweet, very good girl, you’re much less innocent than I bet a lot of people would expect. It’s sort of sexy.” Natasha takes a breath and moves her lips closer to Jemma’s ear. “It’s hot to imagine you sitting in one of your classes, just fantasizing about me riding you.”

Jemma whimpers, because that’s hot but also because she’s a bit embarrassed and there isn’t a good way to articulate this.

Luckily, Natasha seems to get that, at least somewhat, because she nods and seems to soften, enough that Jemma suddenly realizes very clearly that her Tasha is a side of Natasha that might really and truly just be for her.

“Do you think about me like that?” Natasha asks gently.

Jemma nods shyly, attempting a yes.

“Thank you, kitten,” Natasha says. She leans forward, changing the angle she thrusts at, and that would be enough to make Jemma moan, but then Natasha kisses her right on the ball between her lips, playfully forcing it a bit deeper into Jemma’s mouth, nipping at her lips, and Jemma is glad of the ropes holding her in place because she feels utterly boneless.

Natasha seems to notice this, too, and puts a hand on Jemma’s shoulder. “Green?”

Jemma knocks and nods. It’s only a bit frustrating that she can’t watch Natasha making all of the beautiful noises she’s making, but that’s the choice she’s made. It’s a nice frustration, though.

“Pretty, pretty kitten,” Natasha hums as she speeds up her hips. “Pretty girl, pretty mews.”

Jemma smiles around her gag and tries to correct that to a purr. It’s an important distinction.

“Thank you,” Natasha says, and she concentrates for a while on finding and hitting Jemma’s g-spot, fondling her breasts, rubbing on her clit, looking for the best ways to please her. Jemma whines and wiggles and just takes it all in, and she loses track of time before she orgasms and it seems like Natasha does too.

“Should I let you down?” Natasha asks, slipping the gag out.

“I like bein’ yours,” Jemma mumbles.

Natasha nods. “Let’s get you a bit more comfortable,” she says, and she unties Jemma from the chair. “You’re a snuggler, huh?”

Jemma giggles. “If you wanna.”

“Well,” Natasha says, “for you, I could be persuaded.” In point of fact, she’s more comfortable giving subs like Jemma that sort of aftercare: it seems appropriate. But Jemma’s still floating, she still seems to want to chase the feeling, so once the ropes are gone, Natasha says, “Stand up, kitten.”

Jemma does, wobbling a bit. “Yes, Tasha.”

“Hans out in front of you,” Natasha instructs.

“Yes, Tasha,” Jemma repeats, obliging.

Natasha binds her hands, leaving a lead she can hold and tug on oh-so-carefully. “Follow me,” she says, starting to lead Jemma to the bedroom.

Jemma shivers, thrilled to be so bossed, and she steps after Natasha, trying hard not to stumble. “Where?”

Natasha doesn’t reply, but when they stop she slips the blindfold off. It’s a bedroom, a bit bigger than the last but still utilitarian, and Jemma smiles. She’s in the Black Widow’s sexy safehouse bedroom. Lucky her.

“We could watch one of your magic school movies,” Natasha offers.

“The first one,” Jemma says, “obviously.”

“The first one,” Natasha agrees. She touches the gag around Jemma’s neck. “Want it back?”

Jemma blushes, but she nods. “I liked it.”

Natasha retrieves a thong from a drawer, then bunches it up. “To keep it neater,” she explains, placing the panties in Jemma’s mouth before she replaces the ball.

Jemma’s eyes shine as she mumbles a thank you, softer than ever.

“Now c’mon,” Natasha says, leading Jemma to the bed. “Magic school.”


End file.
